Free 2 Knot What It Seams by Elizabeth Craig Page A

to gain some leverage that didn’t exist. She was a woman who clearly cared very deeply about quilting.”
    “As do most of the ladies here,” said Beatrice smoothly. “I’m one of them. And I’m certainly hoping you’re planning to reconsider your approach to the Dappled Hills guilds.”
    “So smart!” murmured Meadow, admiringly.
    “If you’re interested in protesting the proposed measures,” said Booth in a steady voice, “I do have a suggestion for approaching it.”
    If his droning voice could be bottled, it would do wonders for insomnia sufferers. “Wonderful! What’s your suggested approach?”
    “If you go online—because we’re trying to do as much online now as we can—then you can click on a link to download a PDF of a form . . . let’s see. I believe it’s form 21-DRV. Once you download that form, you print it out, fill it out, mail it in, and then I’ll have an official record of your concerns and can appropriately address them.”
    “I think I might have a better approach,” said Beatrice smoothly. “We’ll publicly make our opinion known at the next town hall meeting. Directness is key in these issues, don’t you think?”
    Booth looked as if he had a mild case of indigestion.
    Out of the corner of her eye, Beatrice saw that the minister was walking up with Miss Sissy to join them. Ordinarily, she’d have loved having Wyatt as part of their conversation, but she had a feeling this was going to derail any questioning. Booth was gazing longingly toward a group of older women whom he must have missed politicking with earlier.
    “How does Ramsay think the murder happened?” asked Booth smoothly. “It seemed to me that it was an open-and-shut case—a treacherous mountain road and a bad storm. An accident.” Wyatt and Miss Sissy stood next to him, and Miss Sissy’s face, deeply creviced with wrinkles, grew even more wrinkly as she stared at Booth. She’d apparently taken a strong dislike to the man. Beatrice was beginning to feel sorry for him.
    Beatrice cleared her throat. “Someone cut the brake lines. Just enough to ensure that at some point during Jo’s route, she was going to lose control of her brakes.” Wyatt’s eyebrows went up in surprise, and Miss Sissy grunted and leaned in closer to them, cupping her hand over her ear to hear better.
    “It sounds like something that was done that morning,” said Booth. “If the brake lines had been cut the night before, the fluid would probably have leaked out before she even got into the car. In which case you can remove me from your list of suspects. I was at home, getting ready for the quilt show. I took a phone call from a commissioner about next month’s art festival. Then I got ready to go to the show. Your friend Posy was my ride out there, since you’ll remember my saying that I wasn’t sure exactly where the event was.”
    He frowned at the wizened Miss Sissy and added, “And—uh—Miss Sissy was in the car, too. It sounds to me as if you should be searching for a car mechanic. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He hurried to catch up with a small group of Dappled Hills residents whom he hadn’t yet spoken with.
    They watched him go. Wyatt said in a low voice, “So it’s definitely murder? Everyone was so convinced it was an accident.”
    Meadow said in that loud, boisterous voice, “And Ramsay was, too, until Beatrice here persuaded him to investigate.” Meadow, Beatrice firmly believed, would someday get her murdered. Fortunately, it was a minister she was talking to now.
    And, of course, Miss Sissy. Who wouldn’t be forgotten. “Lies! All lies!” Her lips pulled back in a leer. She ran her hands through her hair in agitation, forgetting, apparently, that she was wearing a bun. Now even more strands of wiry hair stuck out.
    Wyatt Thompson had the patience of a saint. Or of a Presbyterian minister, anyway. “What lies, Miss Sissy? That Jo’s death was murder?”
    Miss Sissy hissed, “He wasn’t